The Italian-Wars
by Quarter 'till Class
Summary: A discussion of diplomacy with the Ottoman Empire leads to a hostile exchange. Spain, attempting to prevent Sadik from invading Italy, beings to ponder his drastically changing relationship with Romano. Despite their attempts, neither can prevent the Battle of Lepanto, nor the backlash of nationwide bankruptcy. - Spamano
1. The Chore of Diplomacy

**Disclaimer: All and any _Hetalia _series character names belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, Bob Shirohata (and so on). No OC's are included within this work, indicating that nothing is claimed or owned by the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you. Please enjoy.**

_**Spain/Antonio x Italy/Romano/Lovino**_

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, weaponry, blood.  
**

A/N: So, a Spamano fic was requested. I ship it...therefore I write it. I guess this could get a bit confusing...so let me explain. Basically, during the Italian-Wars, Spain succeeded against the French in the Battle of Bicocca, ridding Italy of Swiss and French positions. France was already allied with the Ottoman Empire, but relations ran thin and the Empire did not assist in the battle. France pretty much gave up attempting to take Italy after, though they did give lesser attempts.

Later, Ottoman troops were expanding into (North Italy's) Genoa's waters the French invasion, and walked the Norther border as well. The Republic of Venice approached the Spanish Empire for help. Spain, having control of most of Mezzogiorno (South Italy), intervened. This is basically a Hetalia-ized version of their diplomatic meeting. Also, briefly mentioned:_ Turkey/Sadik x Egypt/Gupta**.  
**_

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**Chapter One: The Chore of Diplomacy**

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1536 - A treaty of alliance between the Ottoman Empire and France is set into play.

By the near end of the year, Ottoman fleets are poised in both the coast of Genoa and Sicilian waters, ready to strike with their land forces.

* * *

There is a rigidness in the eyes of the Spanish Empire. An almost unmerciful disdain, narrowed and oddly consistent. Sadik has spoken to Antonio in the past, through the seemingly tedious chore of diplomacy, and only now is the expression of grievous indifference somewhat faltered. It's far more crucial and less threatening. He hesitates, torn on questioning the change in demeanor. For now he would hold his tongue.

"Your territories continue to increase. Spain does not wish to consider you a threat, Ottoman." Antonio holds a tone of uncertainty. He dons a look that points direct accusation and suspicion as usual, though today it was not as fierce. Sadik smiles, posing nonchalant. Careless.

Within his empire he had never seen Spain lack the necessary hostility. It was always a direct and swift meeting, focused more on their openly disapproved issues than the actual diplomacy. The Ottoman's Sultan seemed fond enough of Spain's King and Queen, though the representative himself was rather unruly. Antonio often spoke his mind, much opposite of a proper diplomat. Their debates are constantly heated, the chances of written treaties narrow with every defensive response. Sadik had never approved of his verbal approach; today they both spoke civilly.

"Threat? Due to expansion alone? Your attempt to conquer the Mediterranean is already lost, Antonio, your business dominates the Americas."

"I'm aware...my concerns are within Europe. Your empire nears the Eastern border of the Italian Republic. I suggest keeping distance, considering your recent division of Hungary. Am I correct in thinking that Austria would wage war to prevent further control? Better yet, involve the Germans?" His expression does not falter. In fact it seems dangerous with his tone. He is not tense...simply acute.

Sadik can't help himself but to torment his elder, as why he is hated. He leans back, unconcerned, and grins. Clasping his hands behind his head he seeps a faux joviality, more convincing in expensive attire. He expels a sense of superiority, though mostly unintentional. Sadik is an ass. And always has been.

"You act paranoid," he declares. "I doubt we would reach further into Western Europe. Our resources remain towards overwhelming Greece. You should have no concerns regarding our expansion...especially of a country that you battle for with the Francs."

Spain remains unconvinced. His lip quirks.

"You hold France as your ally. Why go against their interests?"

The Turk sniffs, a servant quick to approach and offer her services. She is dismissed immediately, a look of undeserved indignation sent at her retreating back.

"We are in agreement that the Ottoman Empire should not broaden any father into European territory. We are still facing recovery from our most recent gain, and France has yet to aid us in economic rebound. We simply choose not to invade each other. Francis and I are far from allys." He explains, nearly cordial despite their relationship. He seems so lenient, as always. Hands folded, mask pristine. Unconcerned.

Spain fumes over his act.

_"¡No me traiciones, Ottoman!_ The Republic of Venice, and Italy as a whole, are not of potential to your underlings. Set foot on their lands, or involve them, and I will ensure that we respond to their distress without hesitation." He slams a fist to the table, serious, opposite to the man before him. His calm demeanor is suddenly bruised, though not terribly.

Sadik smirks, humored. "Your tongue still baffles me. I do not speak your language."

"Disperse your men from the waters of Sicily." Antonio points a stiff finger to the map, distinguishing the isle. He never averts his glower of mistrust, inviting a physical dispute of some kind. Sadik found it difficult to not challenge him, as per usual.

Oddly enough, Spain was genuinely tame compared to prior visits. Far less violent and rigorous with his weapons. The man liked his artillery, usually that of a sword or ax, and had made it custom to unsheathe his carried arm in hopes of a physical resolution. And he was often brash...selfish, unpleasant and purposely rude. Perhaps he had complications with facing another empire. But now he only stood as defensive and demanding, rather than crude and uncivil. Antonio sat before him with a purpose that did not involve his own lands, and appealed to the Ottoman for something selfless. A very strange change of heart, though rugged and misplaced.

He is devious in thinking that the Italian boy is his reason for reform.

"Relax, Antonio." He offers the other man a reluctant grin, shrugging off the stare of immense distaste.

"You declare yourself as Spain, but I manage to sense that your loyalties lay in Italy. That's no good." He sighs dramatically, taunting him. "I cannot make a decision, you should know that. I will deliver your complaints to the Sultan this evening before your leave. Your demands are reasonable. We would not want to disrupt the King and Queen, either."

"I do not need an excuse. The Spanish Empire shadows your own, Sadik." Yes, it was massive in comparison, but was placed on the clear other end of the earth. In lands that require weeks of travel to deliver one (much less several) companies to the Mediterranean borders. Spain would stand no chance.

"Usually you are far more hostile. Never so direct, or demanding...but far more unpleasant. The boy who represents the Northern half is your reason for this outburst, isn't he? The one who lived on your lands before his adulthood?" He snorts, half-joking, awaiting some kind of solid, averting response.

"Partially. It is also in the better interest of Spain. We have territories still within Italy."

Sadik laughs, acting delighted.

"Right." Sarcasm. "Nonetheless, my previous attempts at conquest were foiled by both the Southern and his brother. Those children inherit their grandfather's vigor. Accompanying their violence, both are backed by three Republics, multiple Dutchys and God himself. I have no desire in taking Italy." He crosses his legs, suddenly reserved. Nearly disappointed.

"Violence?"

"They are merciless. You raised him close to that of a savage." He teases, slightly irked at his defeat.

"Says a man who slaughtered two mothers within the Mediterranean. Greece was devastated by the loss of their representative. And if I am not mistaken, Egypt battled you raw before you killed her, allowing her son to stand as a witness."

The mood changes. Spain aims below the belt, feeling nearly tormented at the Ottoman's sarcasm. The smile is slapped off of Sadik's face, and slowly reaches over his own. Diplomacy is useless at this point.

"Do not threaten the Empire with my own guilt, _tool_. I did what was asked of me." He felt a heated dislike in his observations...in that truth. He feels his posture grow unfeelingly rigid as he speaks in a low tone of warning. He would not be lessened by an inferior country.

"Weakening a nation by pillaging her lands and killing her people? Decimating her armies and defenses, and finally murdering her in the Ancient's most fragile and weakened state? A good strategy. Not at all necessary."

"I do not require justification from the likes of a _Spaniard_."

That phrase angered him...it was abhorrent to say. Antonio's grip on the arms of his chair intensifies. The pinch of his knuckles are bleached white with tension, shoulders suddenly set firm. But he manages to retake his calm, exhaling a hushed breath of irritation. The very floor he sat over was not his own territory, but rather a force far superior within the Mediterranean. _Only_ within the Mediterranean. Should Sadik ever extend to the Americas, he would be decimated by numbers alone.

"I ask on behalf of the rumors spread by our kind." His tone in dangerous as he speaks, but manages to instill derisive insult. "Have you bed her son yet?'

Gupta. No, such a nation-no..._an empire_ would not tolerate such shaming slander to neither himself nor his extensions. It demanded punishment.

But Spain would not bother to mention the rumors of Heracles. Damaged. Far too young. His goal is achieved, basking in the stunned and heavy silence of his ally. The Ottoman is enraged, as obvious on his face. His tongue is stained red, the blood of his tolerance tasting bitter. He snarls, unruly.

Sadik's control is diminished by mere words. He snaps. "Says a man who eyes what may as well be his offspring!"

His hands are fisted, slammed stiff against the table before them. His face suddenly burns with the humiliation and rage that boiled his blood. He forces direct eye contact, glaring holes of despise and concealed shame towards this supposed ally. Spain holds the same reaction, livid and embarrassed. His skin seeming raw with its color, expression relentless in showing his blatant disrespect and offense.

"Leave Romano out of it!"

Their insults, as brash and unwelcome as they seemed, were both disturbingly true. And the followed silence is a painful one.

The Ottoman sighs, shifting in his seat, adjusting his position as host. He stands, listless, and seems forgiving in his eyes and demeanor. Antonio questions his sincerity, fully unconvinced. He breaths, despite his judgment. Did he defend Romano from the war...or from a meager insult? Spain does not know, and curses beneath his breath, suddenly cross with himself. He swallows as Sadik speaks.

"We are here for the topic of diplomacy. I do not belittle you and your efforts of occupation, nor the decisions of your own monarchs. Let us move past this."

He says it, knowing full that neither will apologize. His is the Ottoman Empire; he does not apologize. And Spain is firm, as always. Nations are not meant to apologize...nor are they meant to hold a grudge. Not as an individual, no. Within their government, perhaps. But Sadik, six hundred years from now, will not hold this meeting to heart. Neither will Antonio. It would be unwise and foolish. There is no point in elongated despise; only current and necessary hatred is accepted. Only opposition to opinions cause disputes among their kind.

Imagine, denying an ally because of something long past and over. Stupid.

Spain retreats his hostility.

"I will hold my tongue, then," he admits.

A silence ensues, thick and restless and unnerving. He thinks of Lovino...perhaps he will manage to see a brief smile of gratitude. It has been some time since he's seen Lovi smile. Not since he had invited him back, welcoming him despite his decision to move into his own territory. Such an adult now. Responsible, but bitter, and envious, and crude. He seemed to have grown drastically in recent years, mimicking his providence. He had always seen Romano as his little boy...until recently. And now he was destined to rot in hell over something horribly taboo. Perhaps he'd see Sadik there.

The Empire remains quiet until the tension is risen and the redness of the Spaniard's skin is diluted to that odd tone of his natives. He waits until that look of conflict is slowly lifted, and that expression of heavy guilt is pushed aside. He wonders, only briefly, why Mezzogiorno would cause him regret. Sadik attempts to lighten the air, feeling responsible.

"On that note, I'd forgotten to congratulate you the last time we'd met. The Battle of Bicocc, was it? Slaughtering the Italian's offense, despite their control beneath France, is truly and accomplishment. You forced the Swiss to retreat and also managed complete collapse of the French position. Impressive. I doubt Francis is very keen of you and your success."

Antonio refuses to acknowledge the fact that that battle was near twenty years prior. Sadik has a very poor concept of time, and always has. Though, he supposes, with their lifespans, twenty years mimics that of a single month. It seems just recently that Francis had been forced out of Venice. In fact, the pervert still acts sore.

"You praise your allies defeat?" He asks out of surprise, not distaste.

"The Ottoman Empire is often looked to in a time of need. even after the last few years, France still requires resources, weapons, and time to recover. As they say, we are the shoulder to cry on. We benefit from their loss."

"Hear me, then. Leave the Italian peninsula untouched, and remove your ships from their territories. The King will also benefit in protecting Italy, so we will not hesitate to respond to their needs."

"I will do my best to object, if the idea should ever arise. If I am commanded to kill or take Lovino and Feliciano, know that I will. Otherwise, we will not set foot on the lands of the Republic of Venice, nor Mezzogiorno. We hold no current interest."

"Then it is settled."

They stand and shake hands, a very European gesture adopted with grace.

"Tell me...the French controlled the Northern half, but still fight you for the Southern. The Republic of Venice is of north decent and concern. If this is for little Lovino, then I'm forced to ask why the territories of Veneziano beckon your involvement."

"Romano does not have the military power necessary to hold defense for his brother. Nor did Feliciano have the ability to fight without an ally. Romano asked me, bargaining his exports and attempts at independence for the defense of his better half."

"Hm." He thinks on it, a hand at his mask. "Go then. We've settled our dispute, more amiably than usual. I doubt you'd want to stay with my lands."

"Everything worthwhile here revolves around the scenery and the sweets. Nothing more." The insults are still tactful, yet direct. He smirks, criticizing such an awful accent.

"Heh, the sweets?" Sadik smiles, knowingly. "Few things are better than Lokum."

* * *

**Key:**

**Mezzogiorno - South Italy.**

**_¡No me traiciones!_ - Spanish translation of 'do not cross me, or do not betray me'.**

**Lokum - Commonly refereed to as Turkish Delight! Yumm.**

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Please review for an update! Xoxo


	2. Hypothetical Knife

_**Spain/Antonio x Italy/Romano/Lovino**_

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, weaponry, blood.  
**

A/N: Continuation! Disputes, arguments and more. The next chapter there will be fluff...I believe. I hope. Anyway, please enjoy. Key is at the bottom, though not necessary at all to read the fic. There's very little translation involved!

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**Chapter Two: Hypothetical Knive  
**

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1539 - The treaty of Nice is sighed by Charles V, King of Spain, leaving the North Italian city of Turin in French hands. The rest of Italy, since 1538, undergoes massive changes under HRE and Spanish oppression.

* * *

Francis never seemed to be politically involved. He attended the meetings, fought in his wars, but never really...showed interest. He was a simple representative, unconcerned with the political end of his monarchy. He did not often agree with his monarch, nor did he usually obey his own laws. My country is my heart, he'd said, not my mind. I represent it, but often I do not approve of it.

Those were possibly the wises words Romano had ever chosen to acknowledge. Other than that, France had never really been taken seriously. Not since the Battle of Garigliano. But Romano has yet to doubt his abilities or threats of invasion...French armies outweigh his own.

"You are sure you'd never ally yourself with moi? Never again? I'm very lenient in demands, unlike your _Spanish Empire_. France would take care of Italy, not sack it upon denial." He smiles, urging an immediate and thoughtless response. His ways of flirtation, though illegal as another man, were far too suggestive to be requited.

Francis mentions 1527, a seemingly dark age upon his relationship with Spain. The very ground had shifted beneath the Spaniard upon his Pope's alliance with France. In choosing the cowards over Spanish warriors, Antonio had been devastated. Unfortunately, so had his monarchs. They had infiltrated Rome, and ripped apart their capital mercilessly. The bruises left behind had not been so easily healed, and neither had his people. They are required to forgive each other as beings without age, though the idea still burns at the base of his skull. Spain did not have tolerance of supposed 'insubordination'. His stern sense of betrayal was indeed justified, especially as both Italian brothers had agreed with the Pope's decision.

That was the past, he thinks. Unimportant.

"You've already taken Turin, you damn pervert!" He snarls, nearly disgusted. The idea of ownership makes him nauseous, as does the implications of homosexuality. France is too lenient with their punishments. As the decades pass, they've become so much more accepting of something so uncomfortably taboo. Francis predicts it will be legal by his early 1700's. He grins at this openly, proud.

But what offense does it _actually_ bring?

His _grandfather_ had started it, after all.

Yet these are the simple things Romano ponders, forcing himself to be unconcerned with Veneziano's problems and rather any topic that comes to mind. Italy faces oppression of both French and Spanish inquisitions, suffering from their disagreements and need for control. The northern half had been invaded, trampled upon by French horses and beaten by Spaniards. He lacked tolerance for this. He felt sick. For the second time in his elongated life, he genuinely hated Antonio.

"Where is Veneziano? Why do you do all of the work?" He asks, rather politely. He drinks at his wine, offered from the Italian to his guest despite the livid vibe received for his perversity and audacity. His mood does not change.

"My brother attends to other issues. His cities are destroyed, because of _you_ and your power hungry monarch."

Veneziano is bed-ridden. The crumbling economy in Milan had deteriorated his health. He will not admit his sibling's weakness, though. Not to the likes of _him_.

Francis chuckles...in that horridly French way of laughter. Romano cringes.

"Those are not my decisions, mon amour. If I could back away from this, I would. I prefer you over your brother, anyway." He smiles again, playing a weak hand at seduction. Winking.

There are loud, firm footsteps down the hall, nearing. Abruptly, the door opens, and the Spaniard steps in. And he gives that awfully naïve, free smile to his underling, which seems to shift from kindred fondness to confused intensity at the sight of his former enemy.

Lovino pauses, uncertain, and speaks his mind. "What the hell are you doing here, Spain?"

"What is he doing here, Lovi?" He turns the question, pointing a swiftly unsheathed sword at the forehead of his concern. France stiffens. Antonio squints, thinking.

"We're discussing the reasoning behind his alliance with the Ottoman. This is a meeting of personal relations, you're not required to waste your time here." Lovino defends his blonde companion, irritated in doing so. He shows spite to his former caretaker, distrusting.

"Romano, send him away, immediately. I do not want to take action again."

"You won't have to, you dumb bastard. This does not concern Spain! This is not a political meeting!"

The tension rises and suffocates the room. They both force themselves to be harsh. Lovi does not think of his youth, picking tomatoes with his benefactor in their garden, or playing the tambourine as the other strung lively, classic notes on his guitar. When they'd nap in the sun of his front room window, together as a child and his guardian. And Antonio refuses to recall the nightmares that would drive the younger to his bed, stubbornly denying the idea that 'some Spaniard idiot' could defend him from his fears. Or when he would try and clean, sometimes being entirely successful, others only partially. When their relationship had become kinder and more open, and they both tried to make the other content or proud.

...He tried hard to not think of his one return from war, bloody, and seeing the angered and worried expression on his Lovi's face. He tried _so_. _damn_. _hard_.

He missed those days...now awfully bleak.

"_Italy_ concerns _Spain_, Roma. Send him off!"

"Why do you keep doing this? What benefits does the Spanish Empire gain in oppressing Italy?" He asks with a valid point. There were no serious or necessary reasons for his constant threat of oppression. Only partial benefits that were sometimes questionable.

"What does it matter, Roma? We defended you!"

"And lost! Your damn king signed the Treaty of Nice and folded! My brother lost Turin because of you spineless idiots!" He points an accusing finger, directing his rage. His tone of voice is raised enough to pierce Francis' ears. There's just an odd sense of betrayal and bitter naivety sullen in the air. They all hate it.

Antonio feels wronged. He feels the piercing pain of a hypothetical knife sticking out between his shoulder blades. His closest companion despises him for actions he could not control, bitter, angry and indifferent. But, as odd as it was, Romano shares the same ache of stern dejection. He resents Spain, forcing the similar feeling of a turned back and absolute failure to plague him due to more threats of inquisition. He feels his teeth grit.

"Quiet, Lovino! You don't know what you speak of! We are trying to _help_ you!"

"You waste all of your resources, all of your money! On _nothing_! Ever since I was a child all you did was throw yourself in front of bullets and swords to protect a piece of peninsula worth absolutely _nothing_! I don't understand! Leave us alone!"

He really didn't understand. He wasn't catching on. He'd never really get it. But what was there to understand? To get? Antonio felt panicked for a reason that even he could not place. They are both confused beyond recognition and are incapable of bruising their pride through admittance. Why would someone of his personality and stature continuously stay with and care for such a negative, insubordinate boy such as Lovino? Even after such a simple question, obvious, neither could really answer it.

"Lovino! I am the Boss! Show some respect!"

The boy dismisses him with a swift hand, rolling his eyes and scoffing. He acts as he had years ago.

"I have work to do. I have a country to repair, including Feliciano's half. I'm busy uniting the Kingdom of Naples with the Republic of Venice, so I'm asking, as a former underling, for you to go." His accented tone rolls from his tongue in an oddly eloquent and respectful manner. He is demanding, but explains himself with honesty and urgency. There's a directness in his voice that he could only inherit from a single figure of authority who'd taught him such. Antonio feels...proud.

So it stings...being denied.

"Former? You are still my Lovi! South Italy was not lost to this-this goddamn _ligón_!" Another index pointing judgmentally. Francis coughs, waving a bit with an unusually coy smile. He apparently knew the word well.

"I don't care!"

"What is wrong with you, Romano? What did I do?"

It was falling apart at this point. Their once striving, unbreakable relationship was crumbling because of politics and control. He wonders, ever briefly, if power was truly worth losing Romano. Why did he blame him, rather than the Pope or his monarch? Why was he responsible, other than backing the King's plans when asked for a trustworthy opinion? He plays in favor of his origin and representation. To turn against The Spanish Empire was to spit on himself as it's embodiment. It was not his fault. He would never suggest harm unto the Italian peninsula.

Any yet Lovino would not allow him to explain. He dismissed him yet again, shaking his head at this final attempt to clarify the situation. Lovino turns to France, tense.

"We will continue our discussion later, Francis. You're always here conquering, anyway."

And he turns his back and leaves. The door slams behind him. What did he do? _What did he do?_ Antonio turns to Francis, weapon once again at his throat, seemingly flush against the other's skin. Francis puts his hands up in a mock surrender, less nervous than expected.

"You know something! Tell me!"

There is no hesitation is the eyes of France, though hardly discernible through his reluctant, cheeky smirk. He sighs, as though swooning, and clears his throat with the usual laugh of insincerity. His glee broadens with the anticipation of conquering Italy. He answers with a smirk of smug superiority.

"Romano spoke with Portugal and Brazil. They told him of your wars and possessions. Complete decimation of large populations does tend to cause some issues involving trust. He thought you were an upbeat, fair leader with a knack for diplomacy. Not some blood-thirsty, ax wielding dictator that's just like moi. You managed to fool the boy."

"Lovino would never think less of me."

"Even after sacking Rome? He trusted you with such dedication, left his lands in your care. He even willingly increased exports when Spain struggled. Then you play your hand at oppression, and he reassesses the intentions of The Spanish Empire. I'll be honored to steal your attention, if only for a few centuries." He sighs, as though love-struck. Smile expanding as he rests his chin in his hands.

"_Eres diferente_."

"As a reassurance, mon ami, this has nothing to do with personal emotions. It is all political and strategic. If it were up to me, we'd be invading Austria – que beauté. I could never disrupt what you two have."

"Shut up, Francis! We have quarrels beyond Italy!"

He laughs, again, smug.

"How dramatic! Unfortunately for The Spanish Empire, we'll be back for him, le roi, il a assuré. With Lovino's word against Veneziano's, regulations for peace will hopefully push them into the loving arms of France. Do not spoil him while we're preparing."

There's this odd sense of nausea that overwhelms him. He sheathes his weapon into his scabbard, scowling at the other with intent. The man before him had once been a very liked and appreciated companion, despite political regulations and disputes. They had been close, enough to jest on the battlefield with knives at each others throats. Francis stands to leave, fixing his hair in the process.

"You know, Toni...if I could prevent this, I would." He's still smiling, though now a little more somber in his defense.

Antonio ignores him. Romano had chosen France over Spain.

* * *

1544 – The Battle of Ceresole takes place on North Italian soil. The French army is defeated by Imperials, and fails in invading Lombardy.

Charles V and Henry VIII of England invade northern France as retaliation, seizing Boulogne and Soissons.A lack of cooperation between Spanish and English armies led King Charles to focus more on Ottoman threats and leave France be.

South Italy is still in Spanish hands.

* * *

"Do you still hate me, Romanito?" Spain smiles at him, lively, joking.

He ignores the question entirely, focused more on the smoked horizon that reflected previous battle. They rest outside of his property to the far east of Palermo, standing outside and observing the distant dissipation of violence. He listens to the sudden calmness set upon Italy by his people, and for a brief moment Lovino feels relieved. He does not hate Antonio. Not like he did a few years ago upon the sacking of Rome. Not as he had when Austria dumped him on the Spaniard's doorstep. No, now he's simply indifferent. Numbed by history and the constant wars over his peninsula. Feliciano is still bed-ridden.

But at least his little brother is capable of speech.

"You should come to Spain!" He suggests it happily, green eyes bright and grin wide. Like he'd been years ago, before King Charles V. It nearly brings a smile over the his own face. Tempting. "You haven't been home in a while, Lovi!"

He scoffs, raising his chin. "I am home, idiot."

That phrase was as true as it was painful. This was his home despite being raised on the properties of Spain. The smell of Italian food. The breads. The herbs and spices. The coasts and architecture. He hates the fact that (despite the differences and cultural individuality) some things remind him vividly of Spain. Antonio's food was rubbing off on his people. His language, clothing and décor reflected in Mezzogiorno. Not as much up north, but still apparent.

"Our home, then," he says. He takes his hand abruptly, squeezing to comfort him with a very uplifting countenance. Toni did this when he was a child. To keep him company or reassure him. A while ago. _Years_.

Lovino feels almost guilty. Because he feels suspicious rather than flattered or embarrassed. He feels threatened and uncertain and paranoid. But how could he not? After all that has happened? Who were they to tie his hands and control him? Who was Spain?

"Why are you here, Spaniard?" It comes out far harsher than intended. But Romano refuses to feel guilt so late in the game. Not now, not after the wars.

"So, you do hate me."

"I don't hate you, Antonio! You invaded Rome!"

He recalls his grandfather. Ancient Rome...what a joke. Supposedly nations become mortal once dissolved or eradicated, but apparently Rome had been the only known exception. His grandfather had loved him, but his adoration and pride had always been in favor of Veneziano. Because Veneziano could draw, and he was sweet, and very much ignorant of Rome's previous (rather sultry and dictatorial) lifestyle. Everything Lovino could not do and was not at all, which was why he came a very obvious second. His inferiority complex was easy to diagnose, though he realized that other countries had a tendency to over exaggerate his need for approval. He knew his brother was better than him in most aspects, but he was far more aware and strategic. Lovi admits he has Spain to thank for his abilities with preservation and systematic planning. Listening to war stories impacted way of thought; watching idols polish weapons beckoned him to use them.

"I didn't do anything! I couldn't stop them!" Toni defends himself uselessly, eyes wide and hands palms up. He yearned forgiveness, reaching out to his underling with a hopeful, uncertain expression. But it was time to pull away, Romano thinks. He would no longer depend on someone else, and nor would he let them control him. Not anymore; he seemed sick of it.

"Don't think Italy didn't have a representative witnessing the King's decision. You voted in favor of invasion!" His evidence is sound and solid. His words sting with the very bitter slap of reality and accusation. This had been a game to Spain since the beginning, and he refused to tolerate it any longer.

Antonio was a very selfish man. Kind, and respectable...but selfish, nonetheless. What he wanted he obtained in any reasonable or unreasonable fashion, whether it be behind the King's back or beneath his nose. With or without solid permission. Antonio was never denied his goals. It was a rare, and scary occurrence. Lovino had only witnessed It once, overwhelmed at a young age by the sheer acrimony.

But the tone changes as Toni's proven guilty, by some meek representative no less. (He probably hadn't even noticed him in the throne room.) He seems livid at this point. That vivacious smile was dissolved as quickly as a bastard child, and Romano admits to missing it light up the air. He liked Spain happy, despite his usually nonchalant denial of such a ridiculous accusation. But under the heat of Toni's aggression, it seems obvious that he would prefer his good mood.

"You chose Francis over _me_!" He states it as though a crime. Setting a stiff hand to his own chest in referencing all of Spain. His countenance is hurt. He looks betrayed and torn and completely useless. It was an odd change.

"Because we're tired of your control!" He admits it out of irritation and pain. His hands shake unceremoniously beside him. He can feel his teeth grind at the confession he's been making so blatantly obvious. Lovino feels sick.

And Antonio's expression is truly devastated, though partially understanding. His lip seems to curl at the blunt slap of realization crossing his cheeks. He swallows, and both take time to ease the spread tension.

"Romanito, I _raised_ you. I taught you everything." It comes out in a slur of accents and disbelief. "How...how could you do this to me?"

That face. Broken, devastated, hurt and forlorn. Everything about Antonio often beckoned sympathy. From his chipper attitude that was rarely penetrated by negativity, to the often inattentive and oblivious personality he held. But Romano knew better. He saw that serious side, usually ending in consequence or rage. He acknowledged the more sharp and realistic side of Antonio simply because it was there, and it was rarely seen outside of war. Almost a secondary ego, alert and far more serious.

"No. How could you do this to _me_, bastardo!" He retaliates badly, turning the victimization upon himself rather than his benefactor. In turn the response in violent.

A fist slams to the side of the house, hand reddened and splintered against unpainted wood and stone. Antonio seems taller. Much teller, suddenly. But he's upset (beyond it) and expresses distaste and intolerance for the very first time in many years.

"When you wet the bed I tolerated it! When you punched me out of spite I dealt with it! When you broke antiques I considered it nada de preocuparse sobre! I brushed everything off for you! I protected you! ¡Yo te crié! Helped you! I was there for you, not France! ¡No Francis o Austria o cualquier persona! ¡Era yo!"

His words jumble into three different languages, ranging from his native tongue to Italian to English. He grabs his sleeve, and Lovi find himself sure enough to pull away. This was not some teenage rebellion. This was not spite or bitter attitude: it was necessity and anguish. It was an attempt at escape, despite his years of indolent acceptance spent lounging as though free on Spanish land. He's old enough to realize oppression, kind or not. He simply considers himself lucky to have not been abused or tormented. Not like others before him. Peru or Brazil.

"That was your choice not mine! I was rotten and horrible because that's the way I am, idiot! Don't yell at me for your mistakes!"

And it clicks, for Spain, but only momentarily. Only briefly does he realize his actions and reasoning for the countless years aiding Romano and his stubborn demeanor. but is subsides as quick as his acceptance had come, only long enough to make a valid argument.

"Why do you think I did all of this, Romano? Why does anyone live out of their own way for another person? Why would I take care of you for years?"

Good questions elude him, because Lovino finds himself discontent and wrought with desperation. He would rather not answer, and instead walks away. There's an internal conflict that he cannot describe, stirred by aches and slow realization. He did not love that man. And that man did not love him. Not in the sense that Antonio seems to imply. Romano leaves, denying it until he reaches the nearest coast, contemplating leaving his own soil.

Spain feels discontent despite his economic thrive.

They did not speak until a year after.

* * *

**Key:**

**_ligón_ - Flirt  
**

**le roi, il a assuré - French for 'The King, he assured.'  
**

**Mezzogiorno - South Italy.**

**_¡nada de preocuparse sobre!_ - Spanish translation of 'nothign to worry about'.**

**__****¡**No Francis o Austria o cualquier persona! Era yo! - Not Francis, or Austria, or anyone else. It was me!  


* * *

Love you all! Updates will continue being steady!


	3. A Girl of Cyprus

_**Spain/Antonio x Italy/Romano/Lovino**_

**Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, weaponry, blood.  
**

A/N: Continuation! Even MORE disputes and arguments. Yes. I'm brilliant, I know. But I feel that these were rocky eras for the relationship of Italy and Spain. I mean, the amount of concern for Sicily was pointless. It had good exports, but I figure costs would have outweighed gains. Eh. Anyway...here you go!

* * *

**Chapter Three: A Girl of Cyprus  
**

* * *

1551 - King Henry II of France succeeds his father's name, declaring war against Spain in hopes of recapturing Italy. Parts of Northern Italy, and most of the Southern, have been put under Spanish and Holy Roman oppression since the third Italian War (1538).

* * *

It has been nine months since he had set eyes upon Romano. Six since he'd received any form of letter or communication. Veneziano had come as a diplomat (a terrible one) in place of his brother. And as the boy spoke, ignorant of the political happenings, Antonio realized he must see his Lovi. Whether it be on terms of business or not.

The travel into Sicily is draining. He leaves from his docks at Valencia and aims to ship towards Palermo, arriving early before the sun. There are fleets bordering the north waters, placed barely outside of Sicilian territory beside Holy Roman vessels. The people are scarce on the coast and docks, even fishermen dwindle in numbers. The air is humid and sticks his clothes to his skin. Ships creak as they pass, old and worn by weather.

Land travel is just as straining, though not as nauseating. The roads are bare and generally cleaned, but the people trickle out and demand odd things in protests. They blame the Pope and Spain's monarchs, as they should. Those who recognize him shout profanities. Others cower. Most do not know him by face. Many do not acknowledge his existence.

After an hour of tedious waiting he arrives on the eastern outskirts, observing several properties. He enters the home of his underling, allowed access out of the familiarity of the guards. The security is increased, protecting the embodiment and symbol of South Italy from further invasion and threat. He wonders just how important the brothers are to their peninsula, or rather their nation. Spain is praised and provided necessities by his people, and the luxuries he chooses often have much to do with war. Belgium states that it is an unhealthy lifestyle. He does not care.

Romano's house (the double stories a reflection of Roman architecture) is empty, and rather dull. It is small as well. He stands in more of a place of residence rather than a comfortable safe haven. It lacks the warm homely feel that Spain had spent years attempting to perfect in his own. It seems dry and impersonal...standard for any nation. He imagines that Veneziano's is far more lively.

He glances up to find a familiar sword displayed above the mantle of the doorway, one he smiles at. He'd gifted it years ago upon Lovino's return to Sicily. He turns his back towards the house's interior, hand set upon the hilt of his own sheathed weapon, and sighs. He listens to his Roma's footsteps as he descends from the stairway, the morning sun cascading into the room from the upper windows. He feels content, suddenly. Almost relieved and ecstatic in seeing the younger.

His Lovito is grown. It breaks his heart.

The descending footsteps halt abruptly, eying the Spaniard's back as he further observes the (lack of) décor.

"Romanito! This may be short notice, but we need to-" Antonio stops as he turns to confront the other. His usually cheerful demeanor is instantly dissolved, suddenly aware of the young lady he'd mistaken for his favored Italian. He eyes her with immediate suspicion, unsheathing his weapon habitually.

She is decorated in expensive but flimsy robes, with bare feet. Unacceptable in appearance, almost sultry and whorish. She appears to have just woken. Yet she is still modest and shy in expression, her initial shock of a threat becomes a small, delighted smile. It is gentle and crisp and absolutely soft in her youth. Her eyes are a hazel, more green than brown, and her lips a fair color, decorated with the oddity of dimples. Dark hair. Olive skin. She is of Cyprus, he assumes. She looks it.

He does not know what to think of her, otherwise.

She is no prostitute. Not some dull, cheap mistress. She is not a maid nor servant. In fact, she is thick and full and hosts deep curves on her body, implying a well-fed and expensive lifestyle. She is wealthy. He pushes his curiosity aside, intent on confronting Lovino.

"You are The Spanish Empire." She wills herself to speak in a very educated tone, the Greek accent accompanying her words indecipherable. She still smiles, genuine. Beautiful.

Antonio's good mood vanishes. He hardens his glare, freely expressing superiority and stature. Straightening up, the empire towers over her impressively. He feels threatened by this woman for some odd, incomprehensible reason. He feels resentful, and (had he been on his own lands) would have possibly had her killed. Nonsensical.

"Where is Romano?" He asks, direct.

She is still sweet in her response. Either ignorant of his crudeness or choosing to dismiss it.

"Lovino is still upstairs. He has yet to rouse." She is delicate in her movements, directing him with a gentle finger. Some angel sent to torment him. With such grace.

"My thanks." And he pushes past her and up the stairs, ascending towards his issue. Or perhaps away from it. His priorities have become jumbled.

* * *

He finds the younger still in bed, as the girl had earlier declared. His hair is an unkempt mess, and he is entirely nude, barely covered by the sheets. He rises on two elbows, arching his back and stretching. He looks as though he had just been preoccupied the night prior.

Spain looks back down the hall, thinking of the woman downstairs. Sex? His Roma? No. It's a dry, unbecoming laugh that escapes him. No humor presented nor implied.

But he suddenly worries. At what point had this become the ultimate devastation? When he had come from explaining what sex was to a young child, to watching that same boy rise from a night of restlessness with some noble woman? To disservice her and her family name for a single night of arousal? Antonio panics. He is baffled by anger, change and time. There was no way his Lovi had grown so rapidly. No possible, acceptable way. His stomach hurts.

But Lovino was not so crude or awful. Antonio was sure of that; he had raised him far better. He would not ruin a woman by a single night for personal, momentary gain. Not one of such money and background. He suspects something worse and far more long-term. A relationship? A unity? God. Were they married? She walks this house like they're wed. Christ. Would he have even been invited to the ceremony? He should have been!

"What, idiot?" He asks, a single eye open as he yawns. His shoulders roll back as he sits up, covering his groin in the process with the thickest blanket.

Antonio cannot breathe. He feels ill.

"She's human," he says. Almost accusing her of some unlawful act. Like a disease.

"What?"

"The girl." He snaps, stern. His tone is strict and direct. Romano smirks, displeased.

"Tch. What's your point?"

"She's...human, Lovino."

He gives him this look of dread. "I heard you the first time, bastardo. It's none of your goddamn business."

"Why would you risk that?"

He asks because he's genuinely concerned. The girl cannot be over seventeen. And Romano has been around since before he can recall. And she is fragile and mortal and weak. She does not heal, as they do. She does not eat or think, as they do. It's like another race. Another breed of being sleeping beside you in bed. Like having a dog, knowing it would die in only ten years.

Romano had always despised that comparison. He was more compassionate towards humans than he let on.

He rolls his eyes. "Because she's smart, and she's kind and she's pretty tolerant of my shit."

Spain thinks about it. Wasn't he intelligent, kind and tolerant of his actions? Was he not enough? Why did Romano crave more?

"What are you going to do if she dies, Roma? What happens when she's old? She's young now, but they don't stay that way!"

"Shut up, Espania! I don't need some too-late relationship advice from a surrogate grandfather."

That burned. The comparison of Rome to Spain was a painful, unfair example of two very different empires. He could feel his expression crease out of irritation, taste the bitterness of sour grapes on his tongue. He exhaled his aggravation, still eying his underling's glower with a sympathetic, unyielding look.

The other stands and pulls some form of decency on, holding up his loose pants with a single hand. Had the situation been different, Toni may have laughed at the redness of the younger's face.

"She's human, Romano." He says it again calmly, as though explaining it to a child. "She's going to age. They all do!"

"Don't you think I know that? If I love her that much then I'll keep her alive!"

The nerve. The absolute nerve. A country, former or current, is given one chance to keep anything they desire alive until their own demise. Prussia keeps that stupid Canary flying. 'Gilbird'. Pft. France has that odd bird named Pierre. China, whom he'd only met briefly, had carried this panda with him. Their choices were limited, and they spent their option on some kind of unintelligent being? On a pet? Wasteful. Though, thinking on it, Spain knew about wasteful. Antonio wasted everything, having wanted it beforehand. Want, want, want. He always got what he want. Seeing defiance infuriated him.

He quickly shakes off the feeling of guilt and self-despise.

"You have one chance?! And you choose a castle whore?" He decides to be cruel.

"She's no puttanna! Watch your mouth, stronzo!" He hates Italian slang. He hates it. "And she has a name!"

"Lovi?" She calls for him down the hall, with a name he'd been using for centuries. Her voice sounds so much more enlightened as she peeks through the doorway, eyes a little more gentle. That brown-green. Like mold, Spain thinks – like a disease.

"Good seeing you, Espania." It's a rough tone of immediate dismissal.

"We need to talk! Romano!"

"Is all alright?" That voice is so concerned. So sweet, like cane sugar or fruit. It's sickening. He hates it. For no reason, he feels betrayed. Burned.

She walks further into the room, hands a bit shaky on the tray of tea brought inside. Not used to carrying her own breakfast, he presumes. Indeed, she came from some form of wealth. She walks on her toes, elegant. Carries herself with her head down, smiling despite the obvious anxiety present on her face. Blushing pink.

"Tell her to go." Toni waves a dismissive hand in her direction.

Her eyes seem to go a bit wide, uncertain. "I-...Lovi?"

"His name is Romano, to you."

"Antonio, do not disrespect her!"

He turns, red, and directs his sword in her general direction. "She cannot hear this!"

A firm silence heats her cheeks, eyes staring at the blade set near her chin. It is not an insult, though very discomforting. Her breathing is suddenly labored, looking up to the embodiment of The Spanish Empire as he threatened her. She would not trifle in superior affairs; she is not stupid. The girl clears her throat before stepping back into the doorway, entirely cautious. Romano bolted forward, a stiff hand gripping his caretaker's blade and forcing it away from her face. His palm bleeds on contact, staining his pants.

She speaks before either man could.

"I understand, Lovi. I will be downstairs. We'll bandage that once this is done." She nods kindly and leaves, tray in hand. A forced smile still broad on her face despite the tension.

They wait until her footsteps are faint, descending the stairway. Gone. He closes the door.

"Fine! Say what you need to."

Antonio sighs, suddenly relieved. He felt resentment towards this Greek girl, entirely formed by his paranoia. He would not loose Romano again. Not to France, or the Ottoman, or some human woman or man. He thinks on Sadik's words years ago: "what may as well be his offspring". Spain feels sick, again.

"When King Francis passed, his son, Henry II took the throne."

"I'm not uneducated, you bastard."

"He has declared war against the Spainsh Empire, Romano."

A single brow lifts at the news, the younger's fingers curling at the chill in the air. He throws on the shirt that'd been discarded to the floor, staining it red. It's heavy fabric, but he seems unfazed. He can purchase another.

"Why would this concern me? Sounds like a personal problem."

The Empire sighs.

"He plans on taking the remainder of Italy from Charles and ensuring French domination of European affairs."

"Great! Let them come. I've given up. The people here are broken and weak – because of you! I feel it in my damn bones every day! Just keep your spats off of my brother's soil! And leave Sicily and Naples to their peace. We want nothing to do with more loss!"

"Take this seriously, Lovi! This is the war that will determine your position in this world!" There's his kind, caring side, making a brief appearance through this mess of a tragedy. Spain seems as he had years ago, when he'd raised him. Loose, relaxed. Loving.

Lovino remains unconvinced, holding his seeping hand and cradling it absentmindedly.

"Get out, you bastard. Before I ban you from my region!"

"Lovino."

The Italian's clean fist fidgets mid-air, halting in attempts to strike his benefactor. Lovino shakes, red and aggravated, near his breaking point. He inhales sharply before lowering his arm with a steady, respectable amount of sobriety. Spain watches him, abrupt in snagging the other's wrist in a suffocating grip.

"After all I've done to protect you, Lovito." He sounds hurt, faltered expression matching the tone. He doesn't understand their relationship. He smells fennel, oddly.

"Vaffanculo, Spaniard."

Antonio sets another firm hand on his shoulder, watching him intently under the feeling of betrayal. How long had he been dedicate to this boy? For a reason even he could never fully explain? A heavy breath of self-control sticks raw against the back of his throat. Lovino, with those judgmental, daring eyes that look past him with disgust, expressed his sudden discomfort by giving him a certain expression. Sadik had been right. This is not how a father treats his son. Or how a man babied his grandchild. Spoiled rotten. Attractive. Indulgent. Dangerous. Untouchable. Perfection in its most defiant, unruly, and stubborn form. A perfection that was eying his previous guardian like a stranger.

He wanted to be more important than that Greek girl. Much more desirable and keen towards. He wanted Romano to rely on him and him alone, as he'd done in the past. Want, want, want. This was wrong. He couldn't have everything, could he? He couldn't just take him, as he'd done before. Things change – France and Austria-Hungary nabbing him and his brother. The endless oppression they all forced unto Italy.

Romano steps away from him, careful of his raw, distressed expression. Spain doesn't know what he looks like, nor is he aware of what he actually wants. His underling speaks up, seemingly disturbed and confused.

"Get out."

* * *

**Key (Lovi's horrid mouth):**

**puttanna - whore  
**

**stronzo - bastard/piece of shit  
**

**vaffanculo- fuck off  
**

* * *

Love you all! Updates will continue being steady!


End file.
